You follow me, sur."
"Go away," I repeated; "leave me before I get over the wall, and slay
you."
He seemed surprised.
"Don't you want to see the tombs?" he said.
"No," I answered, "I don't. I want to stop here, leaning up against this
gritty old wall. Go away, and don't disturb me. I am chock full of
beautiful and noble thoughts, and I want to stop like it, because it
feels nice and good. Don't you come fooling about, making me mad,
chivying away all my better feelings with this silly tombstone nonsense
of yours. Go away, and get somebody to bury you cheap, and I'll pay half
the expense."
He was bewildered for a moment. He rubbed his eyes, and looked hard at
me. I seemed human enough on the outside: he couldn't make it out.
He said:
"Yuise a stranger in these parts? You don't live here?"
"No," I said, "I don't. YOU wouldn't if I did."
"Well then," he said, "you want to see the tombs - graves - folks been
buried, you know - coffins!"
"You are an untruther," I replied, getting roused; "I do not want to see
tombs - not your tombs. Why should I? We have graves of our own, our
family has. Why my uncle Podger has a tomb in Kensal Green Cemetery,
that is the pride of all that country-side; and my grandfather's vault at
Bow is capable of accommodating eight visitors, while my great-aunt Susan
has a brick grave in Finchley Churchyard, with a headstone with a coffee-
pot sort of thing in bas-relief upon it, and a six-inch best white stone
coping all the way round, that cost pounds.
